the
first when any expedition was in train. They walked around the carriage
drive and across fields; at the porch, Lady Douglass offered to Gertie
the hospitable inquiry in regard to the night's rest that Miss Loriner
had made, and went on without waiting for a reply.

Gertie found herself wishing the service would continue for ever. It was
soothing, beautiful, appropriate. "Forgiving us those things whereof our
conscience is afraid, and giving us those good things which we are not
worthy to ask," said the first collect of the day. "Grant that this day
we fall into no sin, neither run into any kind of danger," said the third
collect. "Fulfil now," said the prayer, "the desires and petitions of
Thy servants, as may be most expedient for them." Announced the nervous
young curate from the pulpit, "The eighth chapter of John, the
thirty-second verse. 'The truth shall make you free.'" The curate had
an artificial voice, and he glanced anxiously at Lady Douglass's aspect
of jaded resignation; but it soon became evident he had something to say;
Gertie, listening attentively, wondered whether he might, in some
remarkable manner, have become acquainted with the particulars of her own
case. Truth, he contended, was indispensable to the wise and comfortable
conduct of life. Truth could only run on the main line; any deviation
led to serious disaster. Truth might, at times, hurt others at the
moment, but, in the end, it did nothing but good. Gertie felt impressed,
and the effect of the address upon her was not decreased when, outside
the church, and in accepting Lady Douglass's invitation to lunch, the
young curate mentioned that he well remembered the great pleasure of
meeting Miss Higham at a garden party, given up in town by the Bishop of
London.

Folk had been asked for three o'clock to play tennis, and in walking
across the lawn to look for them, Henry found the first opportunity of
speaking to her alone.

"Tell me, dear girl," he said urgently, "why did you take no notice of my
letters?"

"I never received any."

"Are you sure? I don't mean that," he went on hurriedly. "Only, I wrote
to you three times, and no answer came."

"They must have been wrongly addressed. What number did you put on the
envelopes?"

"But I also called, and saw your aunt."

"I didn't know that," admitted Gertie.

"Looks as though she stopped your notes. I'm sorry if that's the case."

"It worried me frightfully at the time,